Eighteenth Candle
by Moonchild10
Summary: Every year, she visits the spot where Harry died, and every year, she leaves a candle burning for him. Post-game, set in the Shattered Memories-verse.


The snow was falling softly on Silent Hill, and it just added to the idyllic atmosphere of the small New England town. December always meant snow, and snow always meant that the streets were generally deserted in the evening. The snow managed to absorb every sound, and in the dead of silence the only noise was the steady crunching of Dahlia Mason's boots in the packed snow of the roads. The snow was deep enough that she couldn't really discern street from sidewalk, but she supposed it didn't really matter; no one in their right mind was out on the roads tonight. Her shadow was the only one that fell blue on the snowdrifts as she walked toward the sunset, watching the steady darkness swallow the world around her. The pinks and oranges of the sunset were slowly being devoured by the inky blues and blacks of night. There was something vaguely melancholy about it, but that could have just been the weather. It was cold as hell tonight.

"I must be crazy for doing this…" Dahlia muttered to herself as she neared her destination. "I'm gonna freeze to death." her voice sounded garish against the absolute silence of the snowy evening. It wasn't as though it served any purpose, this yearly pilgrimage. All it did was dredge up painful memories and remind her just why it was she and Cheryl hated Christmastime so much. She could recall a time when it had been arguably one of the happiest times of the year, and now it made her sick with its approach. Despite the many reasons she probably should have stayed at home with the awkward silence that stretched between she and Cheryl and the television set, she kept pressing forward.

Dahlia had always had a singlemindedness about her, and it was what kept drawing her to this spot every year, despite the pain it brought, despite the absolute hopelessness. That determination had been what Harry liked best about her, she tried to remind herself… though he hadn't liked much about her anymore at the end.

Glancing back over her shoulder with a shiver, Dahlia was aware that she couldn't see her car anymore. The roads ahead were too deep with snow for driving, and she always anticipated having to reach her destination on foot. She was getting close now, too. She could feel it deep down in whatever part of her bones could still sense magic and tragedy like those of a child. The steep embankment was not far ahead and compulsively Dahlia adjusted her scarf and pressed onward, trying not to choke on the memories of so long ago.

It had always been a little tricky trying to get down the embankment, even worse now since in the eighteen years since the accident a siderail had been added. Dahlia cautiously stepped over it, feet sinking into the deep snow on the other side. It was most likely all in her head, but Dahlia swore that slope became steeper every year, or perhaps it was just that she was getting older. She would be fifty in just a few years and every year it was harder to get down to where she needed to be. Most people were made more terrified by the proof of how high up they were, but Dahlia took comfort in watching the ground below grow steadily closer. There was only the soft twinkling of the snow below; the sparkle of broken glass that would usually be visible was completely masked by the heavy snowfall. Somehow, it was easier that way.

Cursing softly under her breath, Dahlia struggled to stay upright as she made her way downward toward the long-abandoned junkyard below. One wrongly placed foot in a snowdrift that was deceptively deep and suddenly she was tumbling down through the snow, a soft shriek leaving her lips as her arms flailed madly, trying to find some sort of salvation. And there it was, Harry's old snow-covered car still in the clearing lying upside down, and she was speeding toward the red metal with no out in sight. The crack as her head hit the side was sickening but Dahlia didn't hear it; she had already sunken down into unconsciousness.

There was only a trace of warmth in the cold, and it was the sound of a voice. In all the icy silence, Dahlia's subconscious grabbed hold of it like a life preserver in a sea and her eyes shot open. It took quite a few repetitions for her mind to wrap around the fact that the voice was saying "wake up", and when she did she rolled painstakingly onto her back, head throbbing. One hand flew to the sorest place, and came back wet with blood. A soft groan squeezed its way out of her throat.

"You sure had some fall there," the voice informed her, and it was then that Dahlia fully comprehended the fact that she wasn't alone and sat up as quickly as she could in her current sore state, just to show she was on top of her game. He was sitting on his knees in the snow just before her, glasses glinting in the faint light of a street lamp somewhere above them on the road. His hair was slightly disheveled and snowflakes clung to it, not melting.

"Harry?" she muttered in disbelief, blinking several times. Each time, he was still there. He looked frozen in time eighteen years, exactly the way she remembered him on the day he left, and somewhere inside a jolt of pain hit in the vicinity of her heart. "Oh god, am I dead?"

A slight grimace went through Harry's features at that word, and he shook his head. "No," he assured her, and his voice sounded just the same as she remembered. For a long moment Dahlia could only stare at him without words. Despite his assurance that she was alive, _he_ wasn't. The fact that he was here with her at all felt like a cruel joke, some mocking twist of fate. The cold breeze sent a shiver through her, and reminded her all over again of the situation.

"What are you doing here, Harry?" she asked him, confused and honestly just a little angry, because what right did this man who had left her in every sense of the word so many years ago have to appear again in her life on a snowy night? And after it had taken her nearly as long as Cheryl to come to terms with his death, too. Seeing him again felt like backwards progress. "After eighteen years, why do you suddenly show up now?"

Harry smiled slightly, and it was that infuriating smile that had always made it hard for her to stay angry with him. "You never needed me before tonight."

Dahlia gave a short, barkish laugh, a cold one. "Like hell I didn't need you, Harry. We might not've parted on the greatest of terms but you were still my _husband_." she wasn't entirely sure why she was getting so riled up. It wasn't as though she had any right to be angry with him, she reminded herself. He'd been _dead_, and they'd been planning a divorce at the time he'd passed away. Still, all the pent up resentment she'd felt toward him for the past eighteen years came rushing out in the form of words and she gave him a shove, feeling like a petty teenage girl for a moment. "Do you think it was easy spending all those years without you? Do you think it was easy on your _daughter_?"

Harry sighed, and the look on his face was surprisingly gentle. Maybe in death he'd been able to let go of that old resentment that matched hers. Slowly, one of his hands come out and landed gently on her wrist. He felt cold, but not as cold as the snow around them, and that was at least something.

"What did you expect from me, Dahlia?" he asked, and the tiredness that had been in his voice at dealing with her toward the end of his life was back again. "I was dead… I…"

"No, I'm sorry…" a heavy sigh passed Dahlia's lips, and she looked slowly up at him, the hazel of her eyes meeting the deep brown of his for what felt like the first time in a million years. The fire of anger and resentment that had flared up inside of her was gone as suddenly as it had come and it left only a cold bitterness behind in the pit of her stomach. "It's not your fault, Harry. Look at me. Eighteen years after you died to the day, and I'm _still_ lashing out at you. I'm _still_ making it seem like it's all your fault. No wonder things didn't work out. I spent so long thinking it was all you because I was too proud to admit that most of the blame should've been on me."

"Dahlia…"

"No, don't. I know now. If I'd been able to see all this eighteen years ago, you wouldn't have left. And you probably wouldn't be dead," she opened and closed her fists, trying to spark them with some warmth into her numb fingers. They felt like they'd been buried in the snow for hours and to be fair, they probably had. She had no way of knowing how long she'd been unconscious.

Harry gave a tiny smile, but it was a sad one, and it did not look out of place in the dismal sparkling cold of the winter world around him. "Hindsight's always twenty-twenty," he reminded her. He'd always had a habit of quoting old sayings, but this night was far too bitter and the little fragment of nostalgia could barely even make her smile now.

"I was so childish and I was so petty. Instead of working _with_ you, I worked against you. I feel like… if I'd tried harder, then things wouldn't have fallen apart. I was just so _angry_ all the time, and I know I hurt you. I just couldn't stand it, that I could feel everything falling apart around me, and I didn't do a thing to stop it. And so I acted like a kid, and I… I was so stupid."

"We both were," Harry's voice didn't sound quite so tired anymore. That hand was still on her wrist, in the gap where her stubborn coat sleeve always pulled back from her glove when she moved and left a ribbon of bare skin, and it began to move in small circles there. "We both could have tried harder. We both _should_ have tried harder. But that doesn't matter now. It's been almost two decades."

"But I was so horrible to you," Dahlia was a strong woman, and she prided herself on it. She had not cried when she got the news of Harry's death; not in front of Cheryl, at least. That might have been the reason that old resentment toward her on Cheryl's part grew, but she hadn't cried all the same. She had reserved that for nights behind her own locked bedroom door, on the bed that still _smelled like him but he was never going to lie in with her again_, when she was completely alone. But now, right in front of him, she could feel her eyes growing wet. Wiping at them with a gloved hand did little, and before she knew it, she was weeping openly in a childish display that she hadn't indulged in in years. "I said the most terrible things to you I'd ever said to anyone, and then you were dead and I never got to tell you… I never got to say I didn't mean it. Any of it. I never meant a _damn_ word I said when I was angry. I was cold and I was terrible and God, I was the most horrible wife imaginable. But I never stopped loving you, Harry. And I never got to say…" speaking was becoming impossible at this point and she simply lowered her head and tried to hold back the biggest sobs, though small ones leaked out.

"I never stopped either," Harry sounded like he was underwater his voice was so muffled by the sound of her own pathetic tears. All of a sudden she was in his arms, though she was only dimly aware of both of them moving, the force of the lunge he took toward her sending his glasses tumbling into the snow. She could feel the roughness of his stubble against her cheek and realized with a twinge that the only reason he had probably remembered to shave during their entire marriage was that she made a point to remind him every morning… even when things had gotten sour between them. There had been that little reminder to him every morning, even on the one he'd left, and in the short time they'd spent apart before his death he hadn't remembered to do it without her. It wasn't clear even to herself whether it was sweet or simply depressing. "I think we both said we'd stopped loving each other to Cheryl… and to ourselves, because it was simpler than the truth. Because the truth was we were both just too tired to keep trying to make it work. We were young, and we were selfish. We said things we didn't mean. But _none of that matters_. It's in the past, Dahlia."

"The past…" she repeated, wiping furiously at the tears on her cheeks with her glove. For a moment she was silent, and he simply held her with the kind of benevolent patience that they had both been devoid enough of in the end for things to fall apart. "Is Cheryl going to see you… like this?" she asked carefully, and she could feel Harry shake his head.

"She saw me like this for eighteen years, whether it was real or not," he told her. "Now that she's moved on, I don't think it'd be wise for me to go and make her question her breakthrough."

Dahlia paused briefly. "Is _this_ real?" she asked. For a moment she was conscious of nothing but the tiny coldness of lacy snowflakes melting on her cheeks. On Harry, they stayed and didn't melt away.

"Does it _feel_ real?"

"Yes but… just give me a straight answer, Harry!"

"It's as real as you want it to be." Harry pulled back enough so that she could see his face. "I don't know… whether this is reality or just a memory to cling to. What I _do_ know is that we're both here tonight, and that's real enough for me. What about you?"

Very slowly, Dahlia nodded. "Yeah," she replied, watching his eyes for a moment. Absolutely everything about him was just the way she remembered, from the tiny scar above his eyebrow to the scent of his aftershave that clung to all of his clothes no matter how many times he washed them. All the tiny sensory details were comforting in a way no amount of words could ever be. "It's real enough for me."

"Good," a small smile passed over Harry's features. When he smiled, he always looked so much younger. Almost like a child. It had always been something she'd teased him about but something she secretly loved, and she was sure he knew. "And I want to say… I know you've been coming here like this on my anniversary every year, and I… I've been appreciating the warmth, even if I didn't really realize what it was. Thank you."

Dahlia was vaguely aware that he meant the anniversary of his death and slowly, she nodded. It was an odd thing to thank someone for, but Harry had always been an odd man in his own right. Maybe it had been what attracted her to him in the first place. "I had to come. It sounds so… so weird and pathetic, but I always thought it was nice to feel close to you again."

"There's nothing weird or pathetic about it," Harry assured her, smiling again. Dahlia had been lying to herself if she'd ever thought she didn't miss that smile. For a moment, they simply sat and stared at each other. "You let your hair grow. It looks nice."

"Thanks," Dahlia chuckled softly at the fact that he would say something so mundane at a time like this. One hand went up to idly brush some of the aforementioned hair out of her eyes before her arm closed back around his shoulders, enjoying just holding him for the time being. It felt good. "Harry I'm… so sorry, about everything that happened. I've missed you. Really. Cheryl and I both have."

"I'm sorry too," Harry replied, his arms tightening around her a bit. There was a slightly guilty look in his eyes. "I know I put you through a lot, and then I ran away from my responsibilities when I left you and Cheryl."

"It was what was best for all of us. You and I fighting all the time couldn't have made it easy for Cheryl. We just couldn't get along for more than an hour."

A grim smile crossed Harry's face. "Funny, isn't it? That we're finally getting along again, and it's when I'm dead."

"I wouldn't call that funny."

"Not in the conventional sense, no, but…"

Dahlia quieted him a finger to his lips, shaking her head. "We're getting along. Don't ruin it with your philosophical bullshit," she said, but she was smiling. It felt odd to smile with this soft melancholy in her chest and the coldness of tears freezing on her cheeks. As though he could read her mind Harry brushed them away with his sleeve and this time they did not return. The material of his coat felt achingly familiar against her cheek even after eighteen years and one of her hands flew up and held it where it was. Suddenly the smile on Harry's face was a little less grim.

"Dahlia…"

"What?"

"Things have been strange. And complicated. Since I died, I mean. But as soon as I realized what was going on and from after that moment, I've missed you. I hate that we parted on such bad terms," Harry looked a bit sheepish, and he swallowed hard. "To be honest, for a while I forgot it had happened at all, and then when I figured it out, I was surprised. And I wasn't happy with myself. The last time I ever saw you, I was tired and I was angry and I wish… our last moment hadn't been like that. I didn't realize I'd never see you again, and I took us always being able to have a different opportunity for granted. So I guess it's good we have this time now."

Dahlia certainly hadn't been expecting that, and she was left briefly speechless. Finally, when she found her bearings, she reached for his cheeks with her hands, feeling the familiar curves of his face under her gloved hands as she pulled him toward her. It was almost automatic, the way their lips came together for a kiss, as though neither of them had really planned it.

When they had parted ways before, she had not been interested in trying to make things work with him any longer, hadn't even wanted to be with him anymore, but that did not dampen the relief at this bizarre reunion and it did not deter her sudden and almost compulsive need to complete this action they had done probably ten million times since high school. His lips felt oddly cool to the touch, but it didn't take long for them to warm under hers and though Harry was a little stiff at first, he gingerly kissed her back. It felt the same way it always had, and there was some comfort in that. For a moment time melted away completely, but not just eighteen years. Twenty, maybe, or even thirty. For a moment it was as though they were kids again, on the way to prom in Harry's awful old car, laughing about how they were young and happy and they would never, never end up like their sad old parents and kissing over the divider between the bucket seats even as she shrieked at him to watch the road.

One of Harry's hands found its way to her hair as he kissed her, his cold fingers winding through the blonde strands that had seen less gray in years before and pulling her closer. She had missed this kind of tenderness, and her heart ached from it. It had become an unfamiliar thing, to be kissing him, but all of a sudden it was familiar again. There were no years between them and Dahlia forgot, for just this brief time, about everything that had come to pass between them after the happy days had ended.

Dahlia could almost see the bright years and the warm memories, and suddenly the cold snow around her was almost completely unnoticeable. It was odd to her and even a bit sad that it was now, after his death, that they found that old tenderness they had been searching for in the end. Odd, because what sane woman can truly say she had experienced anything like this with a dead man, and sad because she knew that the world did not dole out fairy tales and this couldn't last.

And she _knew_ it couldn't last. As inevitably as the snow would always melt as it hit a child's tongue, their lips finally parted. Dahlia sat back, the faintest of smiles on her lips. Harry was smiling back at her, and she was clutching at his hands and struggling not to cry, he was saying little things that he hadn't said to her in nineteen years, and then Dahlia was waking up on her back in the snow.

"What?" was her natural first response as she sat up, her head throbbing. She was still in the snowy junkyard beside Harry's car, but she was alone. A pang hit her chest as she realized she must have been dreaming. One hand went to her head and she brought it back glistening with blood, but not much of it. Not enough to warrant worry, anyway. With a heavy sigh, she leaned up against the car, lacing her gloved fingers together. A small chill went through her as she realized just how cold it really was.

"Figures…" she muttered to herself with a wry little smile. "The first good date I have in eighteen years and it's a dream." with a huff, she picked herself up off of the ground and turned to face the car. The hood was littered with a menagerie of candle stubs, seventeen of them, she knew, but they were nothing more than small white lumps in the snow now. Dahlia drew a fresh candle from her pocket, one she had chosen the day before, and placed it among the others. This year it was a deep turquoise like the water of Toluca Lake in the afternoons. Dahlia was not exactly a romantic, but she liked at least the colors to have significance of something Harry had enjoyed.

It took several frustrated, cursing tries before she could get a match to light and when she did, she lit the candle, its soft blue light and the cheery orange of the flame throwing their hues on the snow. Dahlia got caught up in the beauty of it for a moment before she shook herself back down to reality. As she turned to leave, a glint caught her eye in the snow at her feet. A pair of glasses… for a moment, everything felt surreal, and Dahlia bent to pick them up, turning them over in her hands. They were Harry's, alright, exactly where he had dropped them when he moved to embrace her. She could even see where he had etched his initials into the frame with a pin and she ran a fingertip gently around the rim of one of the lenses, her heart skipping a beat, she swore.

"Was… was it real?" she asked aloud, though no reply met her ears but the soft buzz of the street lamp above. It could have been five seconds or five minutes that Dahlia stood there, mulling the matter over in her head, so lost was she to the concept of time. When reality finally reclaimed her, she found that her fingers were growing more numb by the moment, and she sighed softly and started up the steep incline, sliding the glasses into her pocket.

At the top of the slope, she looked back, her gloved fingertip brushing the lens of the glasses. "Happy anniversary, Harry…" and then she headed toward the road, walking awkwardly through the deep snow.

The turquoise candle continued to burn bright, and near its warm flame one pair of icy hands lingered, their owner soaking up this tiny yearly bit of warmth and watching Dahlia's retreating back with the faintest of smiles, some of the cold draining from his bones.

"Happy anniversary, Dahlia."


End file.
